scorching summer breeze
she stood gazing at the Nile
a goddess, no less

***

Bastet, she ruled in great royal chambers

A life of joy and dance permeated

Thousands of years of exquisite sublime

Sun-God Ra's bewitching lovely daughter

Above all, she held her cats most sacred

To run through temples of the most divine

Her court of cult and loyal followers

Adored her - she was both feared and revered
Her grace, aggression, seduction combined

If I could live but, a joyous hour

In those ancient times with my beloved

To walk by her side, and to make her mine

To live, and die - beheld by such power

To be loved by so tender a lover

words by ninotaziz. all rights reserved

____________________________________________________________

Once again, Samuel Peralta entices us, this time to try something not quite new - yes, a sonnet, but a structured one that promises to be an exciting experiment - what he terms as a Trireme Sonnet. I was thrilled to be introduced to the work of Heather Horton of Canada - and I admit, I am always happy to be reminded of the land I spent growing into adulthood. Her artwork "Sasha, Sun" inspired the poem above.

I think I am going to trip over iambic pentameters but I will give it a try.

Wind of History by Jacek YerkaI think of the difficult times and sometimes, disappointment that Leonard Cohen went through earlier in life. From this he drew words from a place he said he knew not. Isn't this a wonderful inspiration to all writers as we write with passion and love for the written word, not knowing where they came from. Finding out in the end, it was well worth the pain, the time, the paper they were written on.from suffering and paina tortured place, hauntedcame the gift of words____________________________________My tribute to Cohen continues on the Magpie Tales

A couple of weeks ago, dVerse introduced the Ghazal. And I was enthralled. But I could not come up with a single nugget of inspiration. Well, tonight, my muse came a-waltzing, and here is my offering for anyone who cares to drop by. Thank you, Samuel.

Gay, who is absolutely busy moving, invited us to explore the tools of our trade as poets over at dVerse. This reminded me of the times I was a young girl, writing poetry just for the fun of it. Often, I turned to rhymes, rime, assonance and alliteration without realising these were forms that produced musical tones to a piece of writing.

And yes, life was simpler then. The news was not so much in the face, and Presidents come and go when their term was done. The TV was the dominating electronic device. And the office was in the office. But then, we did not have access to the world at our kitchen table. Oh yes, we did. There was the radio.

Thirty years ago, I had no idea what haiku was, and that there was a French poetry form fashioned after our Malay pantun called pantoun. I never knew that Ghazal, which is a genre of traditional songs to me, was also poetry.

Thank you dVerse, thank you Gay.

Note : Most memorable piece of news then - Nadia Comaneci winning gold at the Olympics and seven perfect 10s in Montreal. And Torvill and Dean's unforgettable routine - Bolero in Ottawa. I was there. In Ottawa. In 1984.

All
my life, I play hard, write poetry with passion, love deeply. Since I was a
young child, I was with a book - always. I could trace the passage of time through books I read at home, in school, while I waited for life to embrace me. I wanted to be three things – a writer, a writer, a
writer at all cost

Words - a trailblazer
Going out on a
limb
Flying high

For a while then, I forgot my dream. In the quest for the
ordinary life, I forgot my burning desire to write, the poet and writer buried
deep within a place dreams did not visit, hopes did not sing

Lost, I
fell
From paradise at the tip
Of a pen

Then sparkling moments, the
birth of my firstborn, finding my muse - the love of my life, me – embracing
life as never before, moment upon moment leading me to this point in
time

Awaken!
The writer within
Grasp your destiny

In the
blanket of the bluest of nights, despair engulfs me, I know within me lies a
poet of fierce nationalistic pride. Yet my country lies sleeping, unaware of the
beauty of our land, our history, our people, our legends, our forest and skies.
Sees only glimmering towers, eco-tours and jungle treks without understanding
the turtle’s song of regret upon the waves of the ocean or the story of Onangkiu
of Gelanggui.

Tears like
Pearls escaping from
The broken
necklace

I press on… for in this quest, my children’s children will
continue the dream of the pomegranate – a story within each translucent seed of
awareness.

Today, Victoria over at dVerse prompts us to look at our memories for inspiration. Here, I feature an old poem but one that I feel so strongly reflects my recollection of my life (for which I thank God for daily). And poems which recap my childhood memories too! As a writer, I often felt that my own memories overlap with those of my ancestors. This could be due to the fact that in our family, we talk about events one hundred years ago as if they just happened yesterday.

My name is ninotaziz daughter of Abang Tik, daugher of Chu Rahmah daughter of Yang Chik daughter of Bebunga, storytellers of old. And Zalina, daughter of Abdul Aziz, son of Tok Muda Salehuddin, son of Tok Awang Pekan, son of Tok Nik, son of Tok Tunggal, son of Tok Ghafur, son of Tok Haji, son of Tok Sabur, ancient warriors all.